The Melody That Lingers
A poem
--
Roses climb through open windows
with thorny fingers bringing blooms
inside and leaves that shatter
among ‘her’ books, the one that lived
here when the river was high and the
steam train chugged along the line.
That scent of mingling earth and mildew
among the leaf carpet and scattered pages
rises as a tide when the door, like cardboard now,
creeks open and your feet kick aside the
glass and your eyes rest on the old piano,
keys and pedals amid bed-springs, and mattress-stuffing,
and the remnants of a story-filled existence
nestling between oaks and elders.
And you imagine her play a melody
that swirls among the branches, and birds
swoop in and out, weaving the song into the
heart of the forest and wonder, did she dance on
those floorboards when they were horizontal
and bake bread when oil drove that Aga?
Copyright © 2018 Bridget Webber. All rights reserved
